Madness
by Havoc
Summary: Buffy tries to figure out what to say to Spike, now that he's back.


Madness.

I drive my men to madness. Well, not men, I guess, not for many reasons. First off, I guess that it's only the one man, and second, really, he's not a man. So, thinking about it, that statement was all wrong. Sounded good though, huh? I was going for this poetic thing, just to make sure I don't waste those three terms of college I actually had. But back to the madness, because I think it's haunting me.

I don't know how this happened. I don't understand, not really, what it is about me, or who I am, that made him do this? Should I be flattered or horrified? He got his soul for me, let it drive him mad for me. What do you say after that, how does anyone respond? I mean, Angel had a soul, but the whole time I knew him, he had one, so that wasn't so much a big deal. It was sort of more of a historical thing, ohh, that's how he got it. Except for the many ways, okay the one way, he could lose it, the whole ensouled thing moved below my radar. I spent three years with Angel trying hard to pretend that he was human, that we could have what any other couple could have. I took his soul for granted.

This, this is different. Spike was this evil thing when I met him; he was this monster. He wanted me dead. That was one of the first things he ever told me, actually. He said on, "Saturday I kill you," and I knew where I stood with him, on nice, familiar solid ground. But it was amazing how fast that ground started to slip under my feet, how it turned to quicksand beneath me, sucking me in so deep I knew I would never be able to free myself. It's not that some ties that are binding, it's all ties, even the ones that you don't like. Things some so innocent at the beginning, a pulled blow, a slow run, then you're in over your head.

My god, I'm so over my head, I haven't been able to breath for months.

First came the day I realized that I enjoyed, _enjoyed, _fighting with him. That I preferred fighting him over any other vampire. It was a rush, that dance we did. We move together well, even when we're trying to kill each other. Then came that uneasy truce we made, to get rid of the vampire I had driven out of his soul.

Today's impossible to answer question: which is worse, getting rid of someone's soul, or driving someone insane?

I let Spike go after that truce, I let him leave. When do I do that? What slayer does that? Bye, bye, Spike, have a nice summer. So glad that you and Dru didn't destroy the world. Try not to get sunburned in whatever place you go to that's not here.

And when he came back, he kidnapped my best friend and I still didn't kill him. Really, is drunkenness a reasonable excuse for kidnapping and mayhem? What was I thinking? There's this strange, I dunno, power about him, something that says, don't kill me Slayer, despite the fact we're lifelong enemies. That we were born to be enemies. Despite all of this, I look at him, and I fight him, and I let him go. It's some sick disease. Or a strange obsession. This can't be l- this can't be anything. I'm just, um, I'm just easily confused when it comes to personal relationships. Nothing more, nothing less, no deep meaning there. I'm bad choice girl.

So now we come to now. Well, not really now. I'm glossing over some details. I'm skipping right over the fact that I somehow found myself in the middle of an affair with Spike, something hot and nasty and I don't even know how it happened. Well, that's not true, I do know. I just don't like to admit it, not out loud, not to myself. And, after I ran that little degenerative phase of my life right into the ground, after I went places that I never thought that I would, I left him and tried to wash myself clean again. Which was when he booked out of Sunnydale- again- leaving me to my lonesome. And now he's come back, with a slightly tarnished soul, and a mind that is so longer what it once was, and I don't know what to do.

He hurts himself for me, to cleanse his body of what he tried to do. I was horrified with him last year, when he tried to rape me. I was angry, I am still, and then I watch him and I start to think that there's no pain I can inflict on him that he would not willingly bring onto himself. He crucified himself on a cross for me. He beats people for me, even when they're not demons, even when they are more human than I am. He still has the chip, it hurts him to do that, but he still did it. For me. Something else he's done for me, another thing I don't know how to respond for me. All this, and yet I have this memory, hazy and indistinct, of him calling me a martyr.

So here I am in the high school basement, this little corner of hell that he's made his own, and I'm standing in front of him, just wondering if he has even noticed if I'm here. Reality is just a word to him, nothing more, it slides by him like it was water, slick and slippery, something that can be touched but not held. And he's just sitting there, his lips moving, his eyes scanning the room, but I don't think he's seen me yet. Do you know how disconcerting that is? He's looking right at me, right at me, and I'm not there in his vision. Which one of us is mad again?

"Spike! Spike!" What do I have to do to become real to him again? I mean, how is it possible that he would have done all of this for me, and yet when I stand right in front of him, he doesn't see me? Not at all. I snap my fingers in his face, yes, I know it's not polite, but I've been here like twenty minutes, and he's still as glazed as a donut. Finally his eyes begin tracking me, faint but there. It was the snapping; I knew that would be a good idea.

"Buffy..." his voice is like rusty metal, old and out of use. He sounds like death warmed over, which is not a surprise, when you think about the fact that 'death warmed over' would pretty much be the perfect description of a vampire. His shirt is off again, god I wish he wouldn't do that, and I can still see the healing marks of the cross-shaped burn on his chest. It gives me the creeps to look at it. I think it shames me. I should have done something, common decency demands it, and all I did was run. I think that common decency used to have higher expectations of me. Not anymore, obviously, but I'm sure it used to. Okay, forget that we used to be, may still be, mortal enemies, I used to sleep with this man. I used to take him into myself, but I couldn't help him when he was screaming for it without words. It's gonna be awhile before I forget what his flesh smells like when it burns, it's a thing that lingers.

He's talking again, his voice warming as it gets used to having something to do again. "Do you have a pass?" he whispered, a sure sign that our extra special office on the Hellmouth is seeping into his brain like poison. The last time Spike was in a school, they could hit you with sticks if you looked at a teacher funny. We should bring that back. No, no, we shouldn't. Too hard to stop.

"Spike, it's me." I make this worse. I must. Because if I didn't, that would mean that it was always this bad and I just can't accept that. I won't allow that to be true. Maybe he's only a little insane. Maybe when I'm gone, he's perfectly fine.

Another burden for the scapegoat, another flogging for the fool?

That was almost sane. And too close to comfort. I've never come just for him, I always come wanting something. Because he's a vampire. I'm not supposed to want anything from him, I shouldn't have ever wanted anything from him. But this is too painful, for me if not for him. Maybe this doesn't hurt him at all, maybe his special place is so special it doesn't hurt there. But I've seen too many scratches on his body, too many cuts, to believe that's true.

"Spike," I kneel down to him, back on his level. Again. Did I ever leave? All that cleaning last year, none of it must have took. Maybe he was right and we are the same under the skin. At eye level, he can focus on me, intent enough that I think he may really understand who I am, whose talking to him. I take his hands in mine, they're cold, like they always are, his blood lies still in his veins, and I hold them, a tether for him to the real world. He grips them so tight I can feel the bones crunch under my skin, but I'm strong. I did the same for Willow, didn't I? How can I do less for him? I want common decency to start thinking better of me.

"Buffy," and this time it sounds like sanity is giving it the old college try again. Excellent, a true Mr. Burns excellent. But he ruins it all by adding, "do you stand when others sit down? Do you have permission?"

Okay, this is so clearly the best it was going to get. "Spike, about what you did, about how you... got your soul back," and I think those were suddenly some of the hardest words I've ever had to say, they almost stuck in my throat like an old bone, "I just wanted to say, thank you."

Spike just looks at me, but I think there might be sense in them again. His lips curl just a bit, just enough to show he heard, a faint echo of the smile that I've grown so used over the years we've fought together. I wait for some sort of acknowledgment of what I've said, some sign that he's heard and understood. It's selfish and stupid of me but I want him to show me that I've done the right thing. But when he speaks, my hopes are dashed. "Are you here with permission? The bell is going to ring, I need to ask if you have permission."

His eyes go blank again and he lets go of my hands, to stand up and begin pacing the room again.

Sighing, I get up and walk out of the room, back into the moving walls and unchart-able reaches of the Sunnydale High basement. Its walls are as flexible and unpredictable as Spike's mind. It's like his insanity is catching. I think I'm catching it, too, because I'm actually briefly sad that he didn't understand what I had tried to say to him. That he doesn't and won't understand how much that one action meant to me. No one's even brought me flowers. Spike brought me a soul, all to appease. It shouldn't matter what he's done for me, but it does.

Madness. I drive my men to madness.


End file.
